


midnight doesn't last forever

by RottenKidNextDoor (PortalofWords)



Category: Descendants (Disney Movies)
Genre: Angst, Carlos de Vil Centric, M/M, Open Ending, POV Second Person, challenging love, the isle is a terrible place, they are imperfect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23777098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PortalofWords/pseuds/RottenKidNextDoor
Summary: you think he might like you. or he did once. now, it’s more of a convenience thing. you need him, and he just needs someone who’s awake.orcarlos de vil might be in love with jay, and jay might be in love with him, too, if he weren't so hard to read and so hellbent on staying safe behind his walls.
Relationships: Jay/Carlos de Vil
Comments: 6
Kudos: 49





	midnight doesn't last forever

**Author's Note:**

> hi! this piece came out pretty quickly, but for some reason i was feeling angsty. it's from second person and you can blame ty aka subtlyhaught for that. it's maybe poetic. it's just... vibing? 
> 
> anyway, the ending is open to interpretation :) read into jay's emotions however you'd like. 
> 
> enjoy!

You think he might like you. 

Or he did once. 

Now, it’s more of a convenience thing. You need him, and he just needs someone who’s awake. Who’s there. Who’s willing to listen. 

And you do listen because honestly, why the fuck not. You like hearing him talk. You like hearing about his day and what he said to Coach during practice and which stupid thing got him detention this time. You like laughing with him in the dark of the dorm room, with your beds pushed together, turned on your sides and facing each other. 

You hate to say you look forward to it, but you do. Those few precious hours when you get him all to yourself - at least on the outside. Because on the inside, you know he’s probably thinking about the other people he’s stuck on. 

_‘Los, I had a dream about that girl I made out with last week. Maybe I’ll go for her again. She had some pretty good shit on her._

Maybe he will. Probably he will. And you’ll know because he’ll tell you. You don’t enjoy listening to those stories as much. They bring out an ache in your chest and a stinging to your eyes and you have no idea why you can’t seem to get it through your head that he’s not interested. 

No, that’s not true. You know why you hold onto that shred of hope, that scrap of a fantasy that one day he’ll choose you. Because sometimes, in the dark, he crawls into your bed and pulls you close and sighs into your hair. Sometimes he traces the freckles across your face and whispers things like _you shouldn’t have to wait for me._ Sometimes, he lets you believe - just for a moment - that this time he’ll really and truly stay when the sun rises and the world wakes up. 

He knows how you feel, mostly because you haven’t really tried to hide it either. How could you when each time he laughs, that tiny spark fans a little bit higher. You wanted him to know and now you’re stuck with him knowing and just… nothing. He can take but not give, he can have your feelings but not share his. A true thief at heart, and nothing less. You don't know what you expected, but perhaps you've grown used to disappointment. Cruella is probably the one to thank for that. 

You keep telling yourself that one of these days, you’ll be forced to save your dignity and move on. At the very least, you’ll have to start trying. But perhaps that’s the tragedy of it all; you were never looking to fall in love with him. It happened slowly, right under your nose, and now you don’t know how to fall back out. 

_I don’t know how to love like that, ‘Los._

He’s said it before. Emotionally incompetent, you know. You all are. It’s not a crime, nor is it something to be ashamed of. You’ve told him that. You’ve told each other that. Because how can you love when love was never given freely to you before? How can you even recognize it when you don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like? 

And in that way, maybe you don’t love him. Maybe you don’t know what love is. Maybe one day you’ll wake up and realize _oh this is what it’s supposed to feel like_ and laugh at yourself for ever thinking this could be the same. 

Or not. 

You’re just not sure about anything anymore. 

Some nights, on the rare occasion that all the cheerleaders have gone to bed and he’s still looking for something or when he’s just the slightest bit still tipsy when he walks back into your room, he’ll drop his voice low and slide in beside you. You know what he wants sometimes before he even asks. But he always asks, and that makes it so much harder to resist. Because he’s thoughtful, because he’s careful, even with all the island fire running through his veins. 

You like kissing him, and you can’t say that he’s using you when you willingly invite it. You _want_ him to kiss you. You want him to say things that make your stomach swoop and your cheeks burn. You like it. You just wish they weren’t recycled lines, things he’s said to a hundred other marks and things he’s planning to say to a hundred more. 

You know he’s a flirt by nature. You know he's spent years perfecting the way to make everyone gravitate towards him, how he can distract them with his hands and lips while he steals things far more precious than a bit of jewelry or a few gold coins. It’s something he’s good at, a persona he’s crafted so very well that most people can’t see any cracks. 

_‘Los, you deserve to be someone's everything._

Those words hurt the most for some reason. Because it implies what you already know; that he’s not able to completely want you. That you deserve better and yet you’re settling for this - these intense, wonderful, fruitless late night conversations in the darkness, flirtations that mean either nothing or everything. 

And lately, you’ve been tired of the chase. You’re tired of the little flutters of hope that crumple away as soon as he brushes you off. You’re tired of wishing things were different. 

You like to think that you’re intelligent. It’s a trait you’ve always latched onto, one you’ve claimed for yourself. You have so few things that are completely your own, but this is one of them. It's something Cruella never could quite take away. Evie likes to say you’re a genius, a prodigy, and you’re not so sure about that label in its entirety, but you are sure that you like feeling smart. You like solving problems. You like thinking and writing and puzzling things out. 

So why can’t you make sense of this? 

It helps to talk to Evie about it. Not in enough detail for her to actually grasp the whole situation, but small hypotheticals. You wonder if she hasn’t figured it out on her own though. She’s just as intelligent as you are - maybe more so when it comes to emotional endeavors. You don't bother talking to Mal about it, but you think she might understand, too. She's always had a watchful, protective eye over you - whether she admits it or not. 

You’re good at staying hidden and unassuming. You’re good at being overlooked and keeping your head down and knife out. You don’t like to be the center of attention because attention can be dangerous so you don’t know why you crave it from him.

You like the way he laughs so hard his eyes crinkle and the way he raises one eyebrow when you challenge him. You like how he teases you and punches your arm and how he always tries to steal the last piece of chocolate even though you’ve threatened to cut his fingers off. You like the way his lips feel against yours, even if it’s temporary, even if they don’t totally belong to you. 

_‘Los, please tell me if you get tired of me._

At night, his walls fall down just a little. You run your hands through his hair and promise that you aren’t tired of him. That you won’t ever get tired of him. You’re tired of chasing. Tired of trying. Tired of fighting. But you aren’t tired of him. 

You’re all trying to be better. But being better and being good are two vastly different things, two fine lines easily stepped over. You see the way his fingers twitch around small, easily concealed trinkets and how his eyes scan the room - searching for an exit strategy or a mark or maybe both. You know him better than anyone else ever will. 

And you’re not as pretty as the girls on the cheer team or as exciting as the ones who like to play games with him and evade his advances just long enough to get his pulse going and his shorts all tight. You’re safe. You’re comfortable. Someone for him to come back to when the shadows get long, and he needs someone to hold him to keep the nightmares away. 

One of these days, maybe you’ll finally get an answer. One of these days you might finally get him to make up his mind about you and everything that comes with it.

Until then, you suppose you’ll resign yourself to kisses that are in no way indicative of anything at all and soft, gentle breaths against your collarbone as he sleeps. You’ll get his loud, warm laughter when the sun is shining and how his hair looks when it gets wet in the rain. You’ll get parts of him, parts that no one else gets to see, and that’s alright with you. 

Mostly. 

And right before he falls asleep, when he whispers, _I love you, ‘Los,_ in the darkness, you know it’s not the same as him being in love. But it’s close. And it might be all you ever get. So you just bury yourself closer, brush a stray strand of hair from his face, and whisper it back. 

_I love you, too, Jay._

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! comments and kudos are greatly appreciated, but never expected! come bother me on tumblr if you want: @unapologeticallyjaylos.


End file.
